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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865096">In at the Eye</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn'>sewn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Drinking Song [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Shannara Chronicles (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Elven Wine, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, In Public, PDA, Parent/Child Incest, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:01:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,700</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865096</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The wine is full and just the right amount of dry—she never liked her drink too sweet—its taste like rich berries, like deep autumnal nights, with a wooden aroma she can’t name. The first taste lingers on her palate, beckoning her to accompany it with another mouthful. She’s never had anything quite like it before, but she can guess where it is from.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Allanon/Mareth (Shannara)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>A Drinking Song [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802755</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Season of Kink</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In at the Eye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Well, I wanted to write a drunk sex scene and it turned into a three-parter. Fix-it/canon divergent future setting, once again.</p><p>This is also for the prompt “In Public” on my Season of Kink bingo card.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The air inside the inn is hot and thick, but Mareth welcomes it after the cold bite of the early winter’s wind.</p><p>They garner a few looks from the locals, but apparently no one finds them interesting enough to bother them. They look like any road-weary travelers. They find a corner table, half in shadow. Instead of ale, her father brings them a small bottle of wine after exchanging a few words with the innkeeper.</p><p>“They do have a free room,” Allanon tells Mareth to her relief as he sits next to her on the bench.</p><p>Allanon rarely drinks but he seems to be in a celebratory mood tonight, and not without reason. They have returned from the mountains after a hard but successful trip to ancient Elven ruins, and they more than deserve a night’s sleep at an inn and a glass of wine.</p><p>Mareth takes the darkened, dented cup that seems incongruous with the rich, deep red of the liquid.</p><p>The wine is full and just the right amount of dry—she never liked her drink too sweet—its taste like rich berries, like deep autumnal nights, with a wooden aroma she can’t name. The first taste lingers on her palate, beckoning her to accompany it with another mouthful. She’s never had anything quite like it before, but she can guess where it is from.</p><p>“Is this Elven wine? It’s good.” She brings the cup to her lips again, wondering at the expense.</p><p>Wine from Westland vineyards is a fine produce, something she never would have used her hard-earned coin on before. Even now that she, in theory, has access to the largest wine cellars in all Elven lands, as well as unearned coin to spend, she hasn’t had a chance to taste any. Perhaps it is her prejudice speaking, but she wouldn’t have guessed an establishment like this offered such drink, either.</p><p>“I’m glad you enjoy it. I wasn’t sure if it was to your taste.”</p><p>“Do you not care for it?”</p><p>He has only taken one tiny sip while she’s been immersed in the experience.</p><p>“It tastes different to humans. Not bad—it’s just quite strong for those without Elven blood. It’s better to be careful,” he adds, an almost imperceptible note of dry humor to his voice.</p><p>“And how do you know that?” she asks playfully. A pleasant warmth travels all the way down her toes as she sets down her cup and brushes a stray drop of wine from the corner of her mouth.</p><p>“Some stories are better left untold,” he says, picking up his own cup.</p><p>His light tone is a refreshing deviation from the usual gravity. She relishes each time she gets to see him like that, without his stoic mask or a crease of worry on his face.</p><p>Mareth is suddenly deeply fond of her father and overwhelmingly happy that she can share his company. Even though they are surrounded by a gaggle of noisy, drunken humans and dwarves, it feels like her world has shrunk down to him and her only, the distance between them melting away into nothingness.</p><p>On impulse, she reaches for his ungloved hand, resting unoccupied on the table. He seems to share the intent, her wish for a magical connection, something that strikes her from time to time. She rarely acts on it, though. It is exhilarating to find him so tangible, warm and real against her skin, and not just when they are tending to each others’ wounds.</p><p>Her thumb is sticky as she drags it across the back of his hand. He has a scar there. He didn’t use to get them. It would have all healed before she came along and his power started to transfer from him to her. She’s careful not to press on it, and she slips her fingers between his. He doesn’t seem to mind, though it takes a beat for him to squeeze back.</p><p>It’s exciting sharing this flickering magical connection, a growing current, without anyone knowing. It is odd because it feels so real, so physical and all-encompassing to her, and yet all that others can see is them barely holding hands.</p><p>“Your hands are cold,” she says needlessly, feeling out of breath all of a sudden. It’s sweetly, painfully intimate, the nonexistent distance between them, the scent of leather that fills her nose and mouth, mixing with the lingering taste in the back of her mouth. His eyes are onyx-dark in the shadow of the corner, the gray in his beard catching what little light there is.</p><p>She lifts their joined hands so she can press them on her chest, over her heart, as if she could warm him like that. Her heart does feel like it could, beating strong inside her, her blood hot, some of it Elven. Some of it she shares with him. Perhaps her body merely answers to its call.</p><p>This other thing between them isn’t entirely new either. There is a clear line between <i>before</i> and <i>after</i>, marked by the moment her mind locked with his for the first time in the depths of a dungeon. Hurry forced them to break the connection then, leaving her head reeling, but ever since it's been there, a tide, movement from a flicker to a flame, stronger when she can sense his magic or when he’s in pain. She’s chalked it up a natural connection between druids and then familial affection, but even then, there’s an undercurrent, a pull she feels. One she now doesn’t want to ignore.</p><p>Allanon opens his mouth as if to speak, but she presses even closer, turning, looking up—and then his lips are on hers.</p><p>She tilts her head, moves back just enough so she can lick across his lips, catching the roughness of his beard before breaching his mouth in full. He lets her guide the movement, just lifts a hand to touch her cheek, other hand coming down to press on her waist.</p><p>She closes her eyes, slipping into a world bordered only by his hands on her body, his mouth on hers. He tastes like the wine and smoke, a remnant of the air outside, and it’s a good, real taste, and the rough skin of his thumb drags down the rim of her ear and makes little sparks go down her neck and spine down to her tailbone.</p><p>They stay so joined for what feels like an eternity and only a fraction of a heartbeat. Finally, Mareth has to pull back to breathe, and she draws in his scent with the hot air of the inn. Dizzy, she ends the kiss with a last little peck, not wanting this to end, and neither does he, chasing that last touch when she lets go. Mareth opens her eyes to find his still closed, his chest heaving.</p><p>Her breathing is hard as well, pulse beating against the pad of his thumb on her neck.</p><p>A clunk of something heavy from another corner of room pulls her out of their bubble.</p><p>What they just did isn’t out of place here. Out of the corner of her eye, Mareth can see a woman perched on a man’s lap. Not too different to how she’s scooted close to her father on their shared bench. As her eyes dart around the room, her eyes lock briefly with a man standing by the bar. The thought that he saw what just happened makes her heart race. But surely no one here knows what they are to each other.</p><p>His hand leaving her neck, Allanon echoes her thought. “This isn’t wise here.” His voice barely a whisper. He doesn’t let go of her waist, though.</p><p>Mareth looks back at him. The absence of regret for the kiss itself in his words thrills her. She feels reckless but she is not alone in it, giddy with a shared pleasure.</p><p>“No, it isn’t,” she agrees, reaching for the belt of his trousers. His eyes widen minutely, but she merely dips her fingers under the belt and tugs lightly, not touching the buckle, a tentative imitation of something possible but nothing more.</p><p>Allanon must catch that thought in her mind and it relaxes him. His hand moves down to cup her thigh where the skin is bared, hidden by her cloak.</p><p>He could touch her anywhere and no one would see, but he rubs her thigh with restraint. The span of his hand alone is tantalizing. She can imagine the weight of his fingertips in more sensitive places, the roughness of the skin, the softness of the touch. She too could slip her hand under the waistband. Or lower. She resists the instinct to move her hand down, but her mind gets ahead of her, and she thinks he feels that thought in her head because his fingers curl on her skin, thumb slipping under the fabric of her short pants. She lets herself dip into the fantasy, imagines pressing her palm over where he must be aching, imagines running fingers along the seam.</p><p>Mareth can see his throat move as he swallows, breathes hard in through his nose. She leans closer again, keeps the eye contact.</p><p>“You were right,” she whispers, letting her mouth curve into a smile, feeling silly, but allowed to be so. “The wine is -,” she bring her mouth almost to his again, “ - delicious.”</p><p>The amused huff of his breath is hot on her lips, the scrape of his beard enticing, something she wants to feel all over. Allanon is right, though. No matter the reputation of an inn, there are things better done in private.</p><p>She pulls back, releases his belt and runs her hand up instead, over the worn leather and the straps until her fingers rest on his neck. His grip loosens but he keeps his hand on her knee.</p><p>Finally, reluctantly, they let go, but even with a foot between them, the connection remains.</p><p>Mareth picks up her cup and swirls the remaining wine around, her senses picking up new details as if awakened by his touch. The bottle is still half-full. She glances at him.</p><p>“Maybe we should enjoy the rest of this in the room?”</p>
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